


a little less fight (and a little more spark)

by evewithanapple



Category: L.A. Confidential (1997)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-03-01 19:21:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2784773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evewithanapple/pseuds/evewithanapple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bud and Ed find themselves stuck in a closet. Sexual tension (and other things) ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a little less fight (and a little more spark)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [madame_le_maire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madame_le_maire/gifts).



They're on a stakeout (again) and somehow their quarry's given them a slip (fucking _again_ , seriously; they might have the best collar record in the office so far, but they're going to start slipping soon if Bud keeps letting this shit slide) and now they're wandering up and down a dark hallway, flashlight beams crossing on the floor, Bud cursing quietly with every second they fail to find their man.

"Be quiet," Ed says, impossibly cool and smug at the same time. Bud has half a mind to slug him in his pretty little mouth for that. When they get back to the office, Ed can tell everyone the perp knocked him down and ran; it has the threefold benefit of explaining why they haven't got a collar (which helps both of them) giving Ed credit for having gotten into a fistfight with one of DiSimone's goons (good for Ed, who's mostly shaken off that prettyboy image but still has some junior officers snickering behind his back at his suits and ties) and giving Bud the satisfaction of watching Ed squirm, knowing where that busted face actually comes from (which is going to give him something to laugh about for a week.)

Instead, all he does is grumble "go fuck yourself" in response; he's an asshole, but not _that_ much of an asshole. If Ed's going to work with bruises, they're going to come from Bud all right but they're not going to be from a fistfight. Works out fine: all the benefits of watching him squirm and turn red, no need for violence. He raises his voice a little. "And _fuck_ DiSimone," he says, kicking a stray paper cup across the hallway. They're in an office building, where they wandered in after the thug they were chasing- he somehow managed to get in the backdoor, which was unlocked, which is suspicious in itself because what kind of moron leaves their office door unlocked in Los-goddamn-Angeles? But if their quarry had a key, neither of them saw him use it, which is just fucking fantastic because now they can't even say who he is or how he got in here or what connection this building has to DiSimone and his operation. This whole evening is making Bud feel murderous, and with no wifebeaters or gangsters in sight to take his irritation out on, the whole thing's layered over with a nasty case of blue balls. Fucking hell.

There's no warning- just the faint squeak of footsteps, then Ed's hissing " _hide_!" and grabbing Bud's arm, throwing him into what Bud thinks is a wall until it gives way and he realizes he's standing in a closet. Ed comes tumbling in after him and shuts the door with a soft _snick_ just as the footsteps grow louder, accompanied by the sound of someone whistling off-key. It takes a second for Bud's brain to catch up with his feet, and when it does he whispers "Scozzari?"

Ed shakes his head; Bud feels it rather than sees it, the closet being as dark as it is. "The janitor," he says.

It's on the tip of Bud's tongue to say _well shit, why are we hiding then?_ before his brain, again, catches up; he's not the smart one, out of the two of them, but he knows enough of Ed's thought process to figure out what he's thinking. If the janitor catches them in here, they'll need to either knock the guy out or flash their badges; if they flash their badges, whoever owns the building will hear that the cops were sniffing around by tomorrow morning; if whoever owns the building figures out that the cops are onto him, he'll pick up his whole operation and move, and they're back to square one. Step one-two-three kind of thinking, Ed's specialty: it saves them a lot of time, but it also means that they're stuck in this fucking closet until the janitor finishes polishing the floor or whatever he's doing.

Bud tugs at his collar; it's stuffy in here, and growing stuffier by the minute. He and Ed are back-to-front, Bud leaning against the wall while Ed leans against Bud and holds the door shut with one hand. Ed's breath is on his face, hot and heavy, and Bud's knee is jammed between Ed's legs. An unfortunate byproduct of having to jump in the closet so fast, Ed would say; bullshit, Bud would reply, if the question was raised. He knows exactly why they're standing the way they're standing, and if he needed more proof (he doesn't) all he'd need to do is move his knee a little, listen for Ed's little hiss as he tries to pretend he didn't notice. And he really doesn't need the proof, but- well, why not keep things entertaining as long as they're in here?

So he moves his knee a little- nudges it, really. And the noise Ed makes is everything he could have hoped for. It starts out as a grunt, then turns into a low groan. "What are you doing?" Ed hisses through his teeth.

Instead of replying, Bud presses harder. He knows even without seeing that Ed's face is slowly turning red, eyes narrowing as he tries and fails to get control of himself. He knows Ed's failing, because he can feel a quickly-growing hardness pressed against his knee. He nudges again and feels it swell, hot and heavy, and Ed makes that groaning noise again. 

"Not here," he starts to say, but Bud moves in and catches his mouth, and whatever Ed meant to say next gets lost somewhere between them. Ed opens his mouth automatically, thrusts his tongue forward, and Bud feels a chuckle rumble through his chest as he pulls back. "Thought you said-"

"Shut up," Ed whisper-hisses, and starts grinding against his knee in earnest. Their mouths meet again, Ed hard and demanding, and shit, he didn't think he had this in him, but he can feel himself growing painfully hard in his trousers. Ed must notice, the bastard, because he reaches down and _squeezes_ , and fuck if Bud doesn't make a noise he's going to feel really embarrassed about later. He pushes up into Ed's hand, and the other man's already got his pants half-unbuttoned, one hand shoved in his briefs and wrapped around Bud before he has time to blink. Ed's fingers are long and cool, and somehow that makes the whole goddamn thing even hotter, and this is _not_ fucking fair. Bud got himself into this because he wanted to make Ed Exley squeal, and that's exactly what he's going to do.

So he shoves his knee up, hard, just as Ed is grinding down on him, and sure enough- there's the noise he wants. "You _bastard_ ," Ed whispers, but it's all hoarse and broken, and Ed's hand is tightening involuntarily on Bud's dick and this is just working out wonderfully for both of them. Ed's hauling on him now, wrist twisting with every stroke, his mouth next to Bud's ear whispering absolute filth. "Didn't know you were such a goddamn exhibitionist, but you can bet your ass I'm going to use it now. What do you want? Me to spread you over a desk, with the door unlocked so anyone could walk in? Put on a real good show, so everybody knows who you belong to? Because they know that already, but if you want to make it official-"

"Fuck _you_ ," Bud gasps, and he's still moving his knee back and forth, but it's hard to focus on anything but Ed's hand around him, fingers now hot and tight, sliding around his slit and rubbing precome up and down his dick. "If anyone gets fucked over that desk, it's gonna be you. What're your subordinates gonna say when they see their Detective Lieutenant taking it up the ass and squealing for more, huh? Who belongs to who then?"

Ed just twists his wrist again in response, fingers reaching back to brush against a sensitive spot under Bud's balls, and Bud groans, head falling back as he comes in his pants like a goddamn fourteen-year-old. He is going to fuck Exley for this if it takes him the rest of both their lives, and they are not leaving this closet until he pulls it off.

Ed's trying to clean him off, because of course he fucking is, but Bud shoves his hands aside and drops to his knees, yanking Ed's pants open and pulling his shorts down without any preamble, swallowing Ed's dick down like he knows how to do- god knows he's had plenty of practice. Ed hisses, hands pressed flat against the wall behind him as Bud swallows him down. This is how to get to Ed, he knows: hit him hard and fast, and he won't know what to do or where to look or how do do anything but what he's doing right now: chanting "fuck, Bud, _fuck_ -" and dropping one hand down to wrap around the back of Bud's head, trying to guide him. Bud ignores the hand and keeps doing what he's doing, because he knows that's how Ed likes it- out of his control, demanding, overpowering, Bud braces his hands against Ed's thighs, feels them shake, and knows he's close, so he drags his tongue along the underside, hollows his cheeks so he can suck properly, and that's when Ed's hips jerk and he comes with a whine that Bud's going to savour for weeks. Or days. Until he drags that sound out of him again.

It won't be very long.

He stands up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, using the other hand to shove Ed back into his trousers and pull his own pants up. Ed's still breathing heavy, but Bud can already hear him getting himself back under control. In under a minute, they're gonna step out of this closet, and no one who looks at them will have any idea what just happened. No one except the two of them, and isn't Bud going to enjoy that knowledge whenever he looks at Ed. _You run the precinct, but I know what you look like when that uniform comes off._

"The coast should be clear," Ed says, and yep- there's that calm facade back in place. "You should button your jacket up- someone might notice your pants."

"Nobody to notice, if the coast is clear," Bud retorts, but he buttons the jacket anyway. "What're we going to write in the report?"

Ed pushes the door open. In the sudden light, Bud sees his eyes begin to glint. "We lost the suspect's trail, but ascertained that criminal activity is taking place in this building. The job was completed to our satisfaction. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Not very satisfying," Bud counters, "seeing as how we didn't catch anyone."

The glint intensifies, along with the hint of a smirk. "Well," Ed says. "We'll just have to go another round, won't we?"

And Bud really can't argue with that.

**Author's Note:**

> [Frank] DiSimone was the head of the Los Angeles Crime Family from 1956 to 1967, and was exactly the kind of guy Bud White would enjoy punching in the face.


End file.
